


The Seventh Of March

by HumsHappily



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Death, Flowers, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, No John and Sherlock do not get together, Rare Pair, References to Drugs, Sad Ending, Tom Hiddleston as Victor, Viclock, Yes this is a Victor dies fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 05:25:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3278411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The funeral was in July. Victor’s parents watch him with sad eyes as he stands in front of the mourners. It was fitting perhaps, that they are in a greenhouse, he thinks, because this is the place Victor was the happiest. Where his eyes would light up as he tells Sherlock exactly which flower is blooming, which he smells, which he sees. A cough from his audience brings Sherlock back, and he glances behind to the casket. It is draped in lilies, larkspur and magnolias, poppies scattered throughout, pops of color like starbursts. Baby’s breath cascades over the sides, a rich white blanket falling to the ground, covering the table Victor rests on. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The meaning of a purple hyacinth is this; I am sorry, please forgive me, and sorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seventh Of March

**Author's Note:**

> HEED THE TAGS  
> This fic includes references to drug use, character death, and just overall painful feelings. Do not get angry because you failed to heed my warnings. Victor in my mind has early parkinson's disease, but you may fill in whichever disease you wish.  
> This is not tagged Major Character Death, because Victor is not a major character at this time. If he magically becomes so, I will change the tags. Thank you.

“I don’t know. He’s not talking. I’m off to the clinic though, and out to dinner with Mary afterwards.”  John looked out of the kitchen at the prone form curled on the couch. “Can you call in and check on him if you don’t get a response in a few hours? He’s not normally like this. Right, thanks Greg.” John took the phone away from his ear, mindlessly tapping at the screen before stowing it in his pocket.

=====

_“William, I really don’t think toes are an appropriate experimental media,” Victor said, taking the spray bottle and adding powdered nutrients to the water sloshing around inside. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He was perched on a table, surrounded by potted flowers. Lilies, roses, bluebells and daisies all waved in the slight breeze filtering in from the window, releasing their fragrance into the air. “Honestly, someone is going to think you’re a psychopath one day and it might cause a bit of a panic.”_

_Sherlock smirked. “I’m hardly a psychopath. If anything, I’m a high functioning-“_

_“Sociopath, yes I know. I also know that that is a complete and utter lie, Will,” Victor replied, cutting him off and staring over the frames of his glasses. “You are one of the most caring people I have ever had the good fortune to meet. You just need a reason to show it.” He went back to spritzing his flowers, ignoring Sherlock’s scowl._

=====

Sherlock was jolted out of his reverie as the door to the flat slammed shut.  John had left, and likely wouldn’t be back “‘til late”. He sighed, and moved off the couch, heading in to get dressed and ready to leave the flat.

After all, today was something of an anniversary.

====

_Victor looked over, face breaking into a wide grin as he saw Sherlock standing at the door to the pub. “Will!” He cried, waving. “Come join.” Sherlock moved over to sit stiffly beside him._

_“This is your birthday celebration,” He said suddenly, with no preamble as his gaze darted around to the rest of the table, the occupants staunchly ignoring him._

_“Yes it is,” Victor replied, “What does it matter?”_

_“But you wanted me here?” Sherlock said, questioning him softly. “Why?”_

_Victor’s eyes went soft as he looked over to Sherlock. “Oh, William. Why ever wouldn’t I?” He turned slightly, placing his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, thumb rubbing the material of the Belstaff carefully. “I’m very glad you came,” He continued, eyes flicking down to Sherlock’s lips and back up again. Sherlock’s mind went blank, as Victor leaned forward and pressed their lips together, his eyes shuttering closed. Victor’s lips were soft and the faint smell of lavender was embedded in his skin, and his curls. Sherlock gave a small gasp, eyes flying open, hands coming up to rest on Victor’s arms as someone behind him began to cheer. Victor broke the kiss, chuckling. “Sorry about that, Will, but I couldn’t resist any longer. This lot has been after me to do something for ages.”_

_He faltered at the look on Sherlock’s face, and allowed his hand to drop. “Will? Are you alright?”_

_Sherlock surged forward, his hands clasping Victor’s face as their lips collided. When they broke apart, panting, Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. “That was…unexpected,” he said softly, eyes meeting Victor’s shyly. “I hadn’t planned on anything like that happening.”_

_“I don’t think I did either.” Victor smiled. “But I think I’m rather pleased.”_

========

Sherlock looked into the mirror, hands tight around the lip of the sink. He gave a sigh, and raised a shaky palm to his messy curls. He ruffled them, and left the bathroom. The flat door closed with a click behind him as he made his way down the stairs.

=========

_“William?” Victor said looking up from where he was sketching the petals of the deep purple hyacinth flower at the slam of the greenhouse door.  “What is it?” Sherlock staggered to him, clutching himself tight around the waist._

_“I can’t, Victor. I want it so much.” Sherlock was shaking, falling to his knees. Victor dropped his pencil, letting it roll off the table, landing with a clatter beside them as he fell down to Sherlock._

_“Breath, Will. Breath.” Victor gathered him in his arms, squeezing tight as Sherlock shivered. “You’re clean, and you’re going to stay clean. What happened?”_

_“Jackson,” Sherlock gasped into Victor’s shoulder, “God, he had it, and I saw, and I wanted so much. The feeling Victor, the rush.” Sherlock groaned and buried his head in Victor’s chest “I had the needle in my hand and I…I couldn’t. But I wanted so much.”_

_“Shhh, shhh,” Victor murmured, stroking calming hands over Sherlock’s back. “Talk to me, tell me something you know.”_

_“I can’t, I can’t breathe,” Sherlock hiccuped, beginning to hyperventilate. “I need it Victor, I want it, please don’t let me leave, don’t let me go back. ”_

_“Hyacinths have a bloody history,” Victor began, stroking a hand through Sherlock’s curls. “As the story goes, the greek Gods Apollo and Zephyr, adored a handsome young Greek called Hyakinthos. Apollo was teaching Hyakinthos the art of throwing a discus and Zephyr, the god of the west wind, was overwhelmed with jealousy, wanting him all to his own. He blew the disc back in a fit of rage, striking Hyakinthos on the head. Hyakinthos died and the blood from his head pooled onto the ground. From this blood grew a flower, beautiful and fragrant, which the sun god Apollo named after Hyakinthos, mourning the loss of the mortal man.”_

_Sherlock’s shaking began to calm, and his grip on Victor’s arms loosened as the man continued speaking._

_“Hyacinths made it to Europe sometime in the 16th century. They bloom in the spring and if you treat them right, they come back every year. The seventh of march is world hyacinth day.”_

_“Your birthday,” Sherlock said quietly, barely trembling now as Victor held him._

_“My birthday,” Victor agreed, shifting so Sherlock was cradled to his chest, their long legs stretched out in front of them. “It’s been my favorite flower ever since I found out.”_

_“It’s the other reason you wanted to become a botanist,” Sherlock said, back pressed to Victor’s chest. He could feel the soft thudding of Victor’s heart, slow and steady like the beat of a drum. “The reason you said wasn’t important.”_

_“Mhmm.” Victor murmured, hands locked around Sherlock’s chest._

_“It is important.” Sherlock said, voice soft. “Everything about you is important, Victor.”_

__

_“Oh Will…” Victor sighed, pressing a kiss to his head. “Everyone is important, everyone has a story to be told. You just have to find the way to tell it. Before it’s too late…”_

_Sherlock turned his face up. “Too late?”_

_Victor smiled down at him sadly. “There’s always something to be missed Sherlock.”_

_“Victor?”_

==========

Sherlock stands outside the greenhouse, hands shoved in his pockets, staring unseeing past the frosted glass. He shakes his head, clearing the memories away and walked into the shop attached. They know him here and the shopkeeper greets him reaching behind the counter for his order. Sherlock ignores the pitying smile, casting his eyes down to the floor, the burnt orange of the tiles awkward, grating against his eyes.

=========

_The pencil drops from Victor’s hand. William looks up from his book. Victor’s hand is trembling and their eyes meet slowly across the room. Victor smiles shakily, and stands, lying his sketchbook down on the chair._

_“I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too late alright?” He walks across the room, right hand crossed over his stomach and tucked under his left arm._

_Sherlock waits until he hears the latch of the door slip into place. He moves then, sliding to his knees in front of the armchair. He reaches out, opening the sketchbook. Flowers cover the pages, hyacinth after hyacinth. Victor has long stopped drawing anything else. Sherlock presses his fingers to the page, careful not to smear the graphite. He sits there, his paced, soft breathing echoing in the silent flat. When the distant sounds of a church bell toll, he rises, following Victor into the bedroom and curling around the man. Victor doesn’t sleep anymore, and neither does Sherlock._

_They lay together until the sun rises, Victor sitting on the edge of the bed as his alarm goes off. He stands, body slow and stiff. It shouldn’t be. He shakes as he slips on a house coat, stands and shuffles away, to the bathroom. Sherlock rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, listening to the water rush in the pipes._

=======

Sherlock walks down the road, cardboard cup clasped in his hand. It steams, the scent of lavender tea rising to swirl around his face. It is only March, but the weather is already too bright; too Springy. He stops, turns, setting the tea on a nearby bench, unwrapping the paper from the florist bag. He crumples the waste, tossing it into the bin to his left, and continues on his way.

=======

_Sherlock finds Victor crying, knees clasped to his chest as he rocks on the floor of the shower. He moves in, ignoring the water as it rains down on him, pulling Victor into his arms. His shirt clings to him as Victor sobs, salty tears running down, circling down into the drain. When Victor is no longer sobbing, Sherlock reaches up, turns off the water. He takes a towel, drying Victor softly, limb by limb. He lifts Victor in his arms, carrying him into the bedroom, lying him gently on the bed. Sherlock unbuttons his shirt, pulls off his soaked trousers and pants. He climbs into the bed, Victor curling into him, hiding away from the light._

__

_“I couldn’t remember where my keys were,” Victor spoke, voice muffled against Sherlock’s skin. “And then…I couldn’t remember how to get home.”_

_Sherlock clutches him tighter, pulls the covers over them both, blocking them from the world._

========

The sun shines down on him, warming his skin as he waits at a stoplight, face turned up to the sky.The light changes and he walks across the road, stopping as he reaches a wrought iron gate. Taking a deep breath, he pushes, the gate swinging free on well oiled hinges.

=====

_The funeral was in July. Victor’s parents watch him with sad eyes as he stands in front of the mourners. It was fitting perhaps, that they are in a greenhouse, he thinks, because this is the place Victor was the happiest. Where his eyes would light up as he told Sherlock exactly which flower is blooming, which he smells, which he sees. A cough from his audience brings Sherlock back, and he glances behind to the casket. It is draped in lilies, larkspur and magnolias, poppies scattered throughout, pops of color like starbursts. Baby’s breath cascades over the sides, a rich white blanket falling to the ground, covering the table Victor rests on._

_Sherlock sighs and turns away. “Victor….” he begins, but his voice breaks, falters as he sees Victor’s mother in the front row. “Victor’s favorite flower was the hyacinth.” He says softly, speech forgotten. He steps away, and walks to where Victor is lying, silent and still. He stoops, pressing a kiss to Victor’s forehead and tucks a single purple hyacinth into the man’s clasped hands.  Victor’s father stands as he goes to make his way to the back of the church, to his seat._

_“Please,” he says, “please.” He gestures to a seat next to him._

_Sherlock looks at him, looks at a mirror image of the blue eyes he knew so well, and sits._

=======

Victor’s grave is ordinary. The headstone is white marble, dark inked vines spreading across it, leading to flower petals. It stands under a tall Tree of Heaven, a distance apart from the other graves. A Star of David is etched into the stone, Victor’s name and the span of his life underneath. Sherlock kneels down, takes the cup of tea, and sets it to the left of his headstone. Sherlock brushes dead leaves away from the base, throwing them away before he looks to the left; to the graves where Victor’s parents rest and gives them a nod of respect, of acknowledgement. He turns, settling to rest his back against Victor’s headstone and begins to talk.

“You’d like him Victor. He’s good and he knows things about space, like you knew things about flowers. He forgave me when I left him for two years, though he did go find a fiancee. She’s an assassin though, travels quite a bit. Makes a lovely caramel cake. Mrs. Hudson is fine, still insisting she isn’t my housekeeper. Mycroft is an arse, per the usual.”

Sherlock goes silent as a breeze blows through the cemetery, stirring the grass around him. He lets his head fall back, resting on the marble. “I miss you, Victor. Nothing is the same without you. No one calls me William anymore. I won’t let them.”

==========

S _herlock manages to return to his flat before he falls apart. He scrambles for the cigarettes he keeps under the couch cushion, finds nothing there. He swears, pulling at his hair. His eyes dart to the bookshelf, to the book with the hollow spine. He yanks it down, opening it with feverish hands. He cries out as no needles fall out, no small baggies or powder. He drops it, and rushes to the bedroom, pulling up the loose floorboard. Underneath, he finds a brown leather sketchbook and nothing else._

_He opens it, flips through the pages and pages of drawn hyacinths. He reaches the end and a single piece of paper flutters from between the covers as he stares down at the page, at the self portrait of Victor that is etched onto the paper. His heart catches, the eyes of the portrait gazing serenely back at him.  Sherlock closes his eyes, willing the water filling them to go away, and turns his head to the ground. The note rests there. He reaches down, plucking it from the floor.  As he unfolds it, his hands tremble._

__

_**Dear William,** _

_**By the time you get this, I’ll be gone. I planned it this way you know. Hid this in the third place you’d go looking for something to forget, though you might look here first. It’s hard to tell with you. I… I suppose I should want you to forget me, to move on and find someone new. I don’t though. Does that make me selfish? I didn’t want to die, but I guess there are somethings you can’t avoid, you can’t change. I built my world around you and now, I have to let it go. It hurts, and it isn’t fair, and I can’t bring myself to think of anything I’d change, because at least I got to know you. I want you to know, that even though I’m gone...I’ll always love you, Will. I have since the very moment I saw you.** _

__

_**Forever and always yours,** _   
_**Victor** _

__

_Sherlock stares at the shaky handwriting; the ink bleeds as tears fall onto the creased paper. Time passes and he notices nothing, knees growing numb._

_Mycroft appears and rests a single hand on his shoulder. After a while, he leads Sherlock from the flat, into a cab, and to the airport. He hands him a bag and a ticket, and Sherlock gets on a plane to Florida. He leans his head against the window as they taxi down the runway. As the wheels lift from the pavement, Sherlock is already asleep, sketchbook clutched to his chest._

===========

Sherlock stays in the cemetery until the sun begins to sink low in the sky. He stands, pulling his coat around him, brushing the dirt from his trousers. With a final smile for Victor, he walks away, empty paper cup crushed in his hand. Behind him, lying against the cold stone, is a single purple hyacinth.

**  
**

**Author's Note:**

> And as always, find me [here](http://hums-happily.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.  
> Any notification of errors are accepted with gratefulness that knows no bounds.  
> Kudos, comments, and your happy (pained) flailing are accepted with glee. I hope you enjoyed!  
> Thanks to everyone who read this over and gave suggestions.
> 
>  
> 
> And yes, for the record, my favourite flower is the hyacinth.


End file.
